Vanity Row
Page 21
"This time, mon vieux, a miracle won't be enough."
There was a short silence, then Wesson sighed and said: "Roy, this triumph of mine is not without its trials. I happened to run into Alden Clarke this afternoon-you know, the stuffy columnist on the World. Well, he'd hardly speak to me at first, then we had a drink together. He got very abusive, said I'd sold out, things like that; said my trouble was, I was a cold fish-had no humanity. But I said, 'Look, Alden; you're so wrong. I am a very human man full of outstanding human qualities; such as: lust, cowardice, sloth, and egotism.' "
Roy made no comment.
After a moment, Wesson went on: "It's easy to be wrong about a man. Remember the song I wrote about you? 'Pursuing unfathomable ends-a stranger to humanity.' I was as wrong as Clarke. You're no stranger, Roy. Or if you were, you've now joined the ranks."
Roy looked up, stared at Wesson, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"Humanity. You've joined the ranks, Roy. It may have taken a beautiful doll to recruit you, but you've joined. And here you are like any other stumbling yokel-trapped."
Roy stared at Wesson in silence for quite a while. His thin face looked harsh, pale, strained. Little by little, he seemed to get control of himself. "Wesson," he said finally, "I still don't see how you lived to be forty-five."
He seemed on the point of rising. Wesson laughed expansively and waved his fat hands. "Roy! Roy!" he exclaimed. "We're at Cip's. We've got the world by the tail. Relax. Relax. What's a few quips among friends? Look. Here comes our waiter with the Stilton. Ah!"
Roy sat in tense silence as the waiter served him.
***
While they were having brandy, Bob Dumas took a breather and lit a cigarette. Wesson motioned for him to come over. He joined them and ordered rum and coke.
Wesson winced.
Bob sat twirling his glass and studying Roy. The Captain seemed a little off-color tonight, a little nervous, not his usual calm, tough self. "You know," he said to Roy, "it's a funny thing. I've never heard a word from Vance. I always thought bims got lonesome in joints like that. I wrote her twice. Don't you think it's strange she never dropped me a line?"
Roy shifted about uncomfortably, kept his eyes lowered. He wanted to get out of this place-fast. What was he doing here, anyway? Good God! Was he so at loose ends that even the company of Perce Wesson, of all people, was welcome?
"Not that I really give a damn," Bob went on. "Just being a good Samaritan, or something-that's all."
Roy sat tense, trying not to think. The girl wrote him almost every day. Alma had put the fix in for her so she could write as many letters as she liked. Yet the letters helped but little. He wanted to see her, talk to her, hold her in his arms. Time dragged as if somebody had forgotten to wind all the clocks and now they were slowing down and getting ready to stop altogether.
Roy finished his brandy quickly and rose. "Getting late," he said, "and I got a busy day tomorrow."
Wesson glanced up at him shrewdly. "He eats and runs."
"It's on me next time," said Roy, forcing himself to remain for another moment.
"Not at Cip's!" cried Wesson, in mock amazement.
"Yep. It's a date." Roy managed an unconvincing smile, gestured goodbye, then went out into the lobby to ransom his hat. Peaches showed a blankly indifferent face as she handed it to him, and did not even glance down at the large tip.
Roy was violently impatient to get out of Cip's-at the moment he felt an unreasonable antipathy to the place, but, as the front door was opened for him, he saw that it was snowing outside-big feathery flakes were drifting slowly down through the light beyond the marquee. At once he was filled with a piercing sense of loneliness and almost changed his mind about going home to the bleak, familiar four walls.
Finally, he went out.
"What's bothering him?" Bob asked.
"Oh, he's got problems," said Wesson, noncommitally. "Like all of us."
At last Bob finished his rum and Coke, sighed, and got up. "Well, back to the tinkling piano. Do you suppose I could get a job with Guy Lombardo?"
Wesson settled himself expansively and sipped his second brandy. After a moment, Bob started to play L'Amour Toujours L'Amour, and a good-looking big blonde, slightly drunk and wearing a well-filled black evening-gown, began to sing impromptu at the bar in a husky, intimate voice. Her escort applauded and encouraged her.
Wesson regarded her benignly, raised his glass, and bowed in her direction.
Smiling, she went on singing.
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